


Like This

by stardropdream



Series: Captain Porthos du Vallon of the King's Musketeers [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Authority Figures, Gun Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has his doubts that he can actually be a good captain of the musketeers.  Aramis has never doubted it - and never will.  (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> I've been sitting on this for a while and in reality the bulk of this is entirely JL's fault - so you can blame (or thank?) her for it. I just really love the idea of Porthos being captain, alright? Not to disparage Athos by any means, but also... Porthos as captain. Sigh. ♥ 
> 
> You don't need to have read the other works in the series to read this one. Let's be real, this is all just an excuse for power play.

It’s like this: at first, it doesn’t seem too different. Porthos thinks to himself that it isn’t necessarily something he’d have chosen for himself – but hasn’t the captain (no, no, the minister now) always said he was the best of them, a great fighter and a great man? He’d always risen to his defense, not out of any sense of obligation but out of pride. The cap – the _minister_ has always been a man lacking in platitudes. No, Porthos knows that Treville’s offer to him is one born from a genuine pride in all that Porthos has accomplished. It is not just that he now carries the weight of his sword at his hip, but that he should carry the weight of the captaincy as well. 

The ceremony is not a large one. Treville introduces Porthos as the new captain, says a few words that get lost in a few good-mannered cheers and quickly drowned out with the bustling of it all. They are, after all, preparing for war. And anyway, it is d’Artagnan’s wedding that everyone wishes to speak about. Truthfully, Porthos is grateful for it. He never was one for pomp – at least not like this. He’s still a musketeer. They are still going to war. That’s what matters.

And what also matters is getting Aramis back. The ride to the monastery is at once the quickest and the slowest he’s ever taken. He should be back in the garrison, leading the men. He’s the new captain, after all. But getting Aramis is more important, in this moment. He knows the other two feel the same. 

 

-

 

Aramis’ reaction, in the whirlwind that is their reunion – the three of them marching to the monastery, taking him back home where he belongs – is perhaps an understated one. Porthos can see the things that Aramis notes – d’Artagnan’s wedding ring, Athos’ faraway look, Porthos’ new pauldron. He doesn’t speak on it all at once. Athos, of course, is cagey with his feelings. He keeps looking to the northwest, as if looking for something that is no longer there and can never return. But d’Artagnan is quick to describe his wedding to Aramis, who listens with great enthusiasm. 

He gives Porthos a small smile, when d’Artagnan talks about Porthos’ new position. Porthos smiles back and then looks away, riding ahead to give Aramis and d’Artagnan a chance to catch up. He lingers beside Athos, who is quiet and moody and, in these moments, prefers a kind of silent presence more than anything else. It’s just as well. Porthos isn’t sure if he’d be able to give him any more emotional support than this. 

Everything is rattling around inside of him. Not a fear, perhaps, but a surprise. He’d never have guessed the captain – _Treville_ now, not captain – would have given him this position. Through it all, it seems as if it might have been better given to Athos. 

Athos glances up, most feel Porthos’ gaze on him. “Yes?” he asks, not sharply but perhaps resigned. “Something the matter?” 

Porthos shakes his head. Can’t put into words the sense of displacement he feels in his chest. It is not that he feels himself undeserving of the captaincy. It is only that he never considered himself a true leader, before. Treville, though. Treville saw something in Porthos – it only means he’ll have to do his best to be worthy of that endorsement. 

 

-

 

Preparations for war are extensive. He hardly sees the others, working as he is, trying to find some semblance of control of everything. Once they get back to the garrison, they hit the ground running. Packing up, shipping out. Porthos hardly has time to breathe before he’s being outfitted for armor. Hardly has time to admire his new quarters, the new office, the extent of orders and reports laid out on their shelves. 

He runs his hand over the lacquered surface of the desk, his now, strangely – how many times did he stand on the other side, getting an earful from Treville? – admires the desk once before he leaves, barrels down the stairs and shouts more orders for the flurry of men running around, uncertain how to be men at war.

 

-

 

Or, it becomes: three days before they’re to set off for the border and there’s a knock at Porthos’ door. He’s still not used to being needed at all hours of the day. He almost stands to get up, to answer the door, before remembering himself. He calls out, “Come in.” 

It’s Aramis at the door – peeking his head in. It sucks the breath from Porthos’ lungs. How long has it been since he’s had a quiet moment to actually talk to Aramis, since they’ve come back from the monastery? Since _he_ came home with them? He’s seen Aramis maybe twice in that time. 

Aramis smiles at him, small and quiet, and leans back against the door so it clicks with a steady, firm thud. Porthos watches Aramis flip the latch of the lock. 

“Captain,” Aramis says, with that lilt of a tease to his voice. He’s smiling at him still. It’s a tease but it still feels wrong. Porthos always liked the way Aramis said his name better, always liked the way Aramis could gasp it out.

“Hey,” Porthos says, smiles at him in a way that is not like a captain – shy and awkward, suddenly feeling out of place in this room that’s meant to be his own. It only ever felt like belonging when he was on the other side of the desk, his brothers beside him. Now, Aramis hasn’t moved from the door, and he’s giving Porthos that slow, indulgent smile. 

Aramis pulls the hand behind his back and reveals a small, modest bottle of wine. He shakes it a little, arching his brow. “Care to share a drink? In celebration, of course.” 

Porthos almost makes a joke about being at war hardly a cause for celebration, but Aramis’ face is soft in the candlelight and Porthos knows he could refuse him nothing. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good.”

 

-

 

They’re halfway through the wine, Porthos sitting on the edge of his desk, Aramis sprawled out in a seat – not Porthos’ chair, he notes, but close enough he can prop one of his feet up onto the desk, near Porthos’ hip.

Porthos is still smiling – feels lighter than he has in weeks – and it’s just because of Aramis’ presence. They haven’t spoken much. They rarely need to speak, years of friendship between them making words rather unnecessary at times. They swap the bottle back and forth, taking slow drags from the bottle so as not to waste time searching for cups. The wine is fruity, lingers on his tongue, leaves him feeling warmed from the inside out. He says to himself it’s the wine, not the company. Easier that way. 

Aramis studies the bottle, then looks up at him – smiles, tilts his head. A piece of hair is sticking to his temple. Porthos watches in a silent kind of expectation as Aramis first bats it away and then works at undoing his coat, shrugging out of it and rolling up his shirtsleeves. It’s warm. 

 

-

 

Or, it’s this: Aramis stand and leans in – cups Porthos’ cheek, the side with the scar, and leans in to kiss him. Porthos lets him – kisses him back after a quiet moment. His hands aren’t sure where to rest, what he should be doing at all – he sets down the bottle, cups Aramis’ hips. 

Aramis breathes out a laugh, and it’s all teeth against Porthos’ lips. He’s not laughing at him, though – the opposite. When Porthos draws back, Aramis’ expression is soft in the lighting, face flushed with wine, warm and gentle. He traces over Porthos’ scar. 

“It was such a short time,” Aramis says, quiet, intimate in the space between them. His thumb touches at the corner of Porthos’ mouth. “And yet… I missed you. God, I missed you, Porthos.” 

Porthos doesn’t know what his expression must look like in this moment, only knows that he makes a soft, wounded sound that hitches up into his throat – and some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. Aramis looks small in that moment, as if terrified Porthos will draw back.

Instead, Porthos pulls him down, and kisses him. 

 

-

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Porthos confesses between kisses, feels the heat of the late summer building in this room – his _office_. Aramis tugs at the buckles to his coat, stripping him down, pressing closer to him. Aramis mouths at his cheek, his jaw, his ear – sucks at the earring there. 

“Porthos,” he says, drawing back – looking at him before leaning forward to press his forehead to his, brushing his nose to his. “You can do _anything._ ”

Porthos snorts out a soft laugh, ready for the joke, but it doesn’t come. Aramis looks at him steadily, cups his cheeks, and gives him a small smile. 

“You,” he says, calm, “can do anything.” 

Porthos closes his eyes to it – can’t breathe for a moment. He squeezes Aramis’ hips, then slides up under his shirt, skimming across his ribs so that Aramis breathes out a little laugh, just a puff of air against his mouth. 

“Thanks,” he says, choked up, and means it. 

Aramis lets out a soft sound and kisses him – again and again, until they’re both breathless. “Don’t ever think you’re not capable of anything, my friend.” 

 

-

 

“What I think,” – Aramis says between kisses, when Porthos is ready to drag him down into the bed, to strip them both down and waste away the rest of the evening (the way he could, to make up the time he’s spent from Aramis, to tease him into that gentleness), the kind that Aramis has always deserved and believes himself undeserving of – “is that you need to try out the role properly.” 

“What do you have in mind?” Porthos asks, already fiddling with Aramis’ belt. 

Aramis grins, large and overly sure – confidence again. He moves away from Porthos’ hands. “I’ll show you.” 

 

-

 

It’s like this: Aramis pushing Porthos back against his desk. He leans into his space and kisses him once before backing up to look at him. Porthos stays there, hands planted on his desk.

Aramis tips his chin down and gives him a slow smile, hair falling into his eyes. “What orders do you have for me, _Captain_?” 

 

-

 

Or, it’s like this: Porthos still for a moment, unsure how to respond. 

The captaincy sits on his shoulders. He does not know how to handle it, does not know how to step up from foot soldier, good soldier, to captain – answering to the king, the answer to so many men, so many men who respect him and so many who never thought he’d last a month. He does not know how to be a leader, when he has followed Athos instinctively since meeting him. He does not know what it is that the captain saw in him, despite sentiment, despite him being a good soldier. 

Aramis smiles at him, warm and gentle, the glow of the candlelight around them so Porthos can see the way Aramis looks at him – the way Aramis has always looked at him. 

It’s like this: Porthos hasn’t seen Aramis for days, but that does not mean that Aramis has not seen him – already bowing into himself after only a few days, stressed and doubting. It’s like this: Aramis didn’t come here tonight for the simplicity of drinking between friends, but to reach out and offer that comfort and support the only way he really knows how to, the only way he could be sure Porthos wouldn’t reject outright. 

It’s like this: Porthos does not know if he can be captain; Aramis has never doubted it. 

 

-

 

Porthos breathes out, nods his head up once towards Aramis, who grins at him helplessly. It’s like this: Porthos can be that man that Aramis sees in him, at least for one night. 

“Alright,” Porthos says, leaning back further against the desk, crosses his legs one foot over ankle. He lifts his eyebrows. “Strip.” 

Aramis grins more. “Porthos—”

“That’s _Captain_ to you,” he interrupts, stern – firm, face impassive as he stares at Aramis. 

Aramis’ breath rattles out of him, stuttering and aroused. 

Porthos says, bravado now, voice low and calm, “Unless you’re waiting for me to do it? Would you expect your _captain_ to help you?” 

Aramis laughs once, and then seems to go breathless – the smile slipping from his face much the same way it has in the past, when he realizes that something Porthos is offering is in utter seriousness. He breathes out once, blinks once, and then he’s stripping down quickly, hands fumbling to work at the ties of his shirtsleeves, plucking them open and never breaking his eyes from Porthos. 

Aramis is hard before he’s even finished stripping – Porthos can see through his braies when he strips off his belts, lets his pants slump down over his hips. 

Porthos’ stern expression breaks and he gives him the same shy, silly smile he knows that Aramis finds endearing (would betray him deeply by calling it _cute_ ). “Damn,” he says, “This really does it for you, doesn’t it?” 

“Don’t break character, Captain,” Aramis scolds, but he’s grinning – flush now with more than just wine as he steps out of his clothes, naked in front of him. 

Porthos schools his expression back into place after a few unsuccessful laughs between the two of them. 

Then he jerks his chin towards Aramis. “Well? What do you think – is your captain someone who’s going to strip down with you, or should I just fuck you like this?” 

“Yes,” Aramis gasps out, shivers as he steps towards him. 

 

-

 

It’s like this: Aramis moves close enough so that Porthos can reach out, curl his hand around his cock and stroke him. Aramis stutters out a helpless, pleased moan, leaning over him as Porthos sits at the edge of his desk, struggles to not smile at him, to not let his eyes soften to see the flutter to Aramis’ eyelashes up this close, the scrape of his teeth against his lip as he bites to keep back the moans. Porthos watches him, the way the breath huffs out of him, his cheeks darken and then flush out as the blood rushes to his cock, thick in Porthos’ hand. 

“Captain,” Aramis says, and then they both laugh because the word is still new, still fresh – and they have known each other too long. Porthos grins at him and Aramis ducks down, licks into his mouth, whimpers out a pleased moan when Porthos kisses him slow and luxurious. 

 

-

 

It’s like this: Aramis on his knees, Porthos leaning back against his desk. Aramis looking up at him, shaking hands on his thighs. Porthos, nodding his head, letting his fingers slide through his hair once to tip his head back. His other hand unbuckling his belt, loose enough to untuck his shirt, tug his pants down enough so that Aramis can get to his cock. Still clothed, despite it, still in control – draws out his cock to Aramis’ gasping pleas, the way he scoots forward on his knees so he can nuzzle to the inside of his thigh, mouth at his cock, let it slide against his cheek before he takes it into his mouth – greedy, whimpering and suckling and being loud, obscene, with it. 

“Good,” Porthos tells him and Aramis arches, squeezes his fingers tight into the meat of Porthos’ thighs, suckling around his cockhead and looking up at him as if there is salvation there. Porthos lets his hand rest at the crown of his head, not pushing or guiding, just letting him feel the weight of it. 

Or, like this: Porthos struggling to seem impassive, when his entire body is buzzing with warmth, with desire, for Aramis. Trying to scoff out, unimpressed, because it makes Aramis squirm, makes him suckle and lick harder to try to coax out that reaction. Trying to remain impartial, unmoved – a steady statue of authority, when all he wants to do is melt into Aramis, push him down on top of the desk and just press into him. 

Instead, he tugs hard at Aramis’ hair, makes him cry out in desire and scramble up closer, pressing sloppy kisses to the slope of his cock. Porthos shivers, shudders as he bows down – wants to kiss him, wants him closer, wants to be something other than authority but willing to give Aramis this, needing to give himself this: control, authority – freely given, freely his. 

He cups the back of Aramis’ head – draws him forward so that he swallows down around Porthos’ cock, chokes on it. He can feel Aramis’ smile around the cock in his mouth. 

 

-

 

Or: Aramis bent over the desk, naked, and Porthos standing over him, clothes disorderly but still on. 

Aramis whining out when Porthos presses the gun barrel to the cusp of his skull, slides it forward to drag along his jaw. 

“Captain,” he gasps out, turns his head to press a kiss to the barrel of the gun. 

Porthos laughs – a breathless, needy thing that he tries to school into something firmer, more distant. He’s unsuccessful, but Aramis is already squirming. 

“You know,” he says, steadying hand on Aramis’ back, sliding up and down, as if soothing him – follows the line of Aramis’ neck with his gun, “I could summon anyone up here – and what would they think if they saw you like this now?” 

He knows what this will do – has known what Aramis respond to for years now – and sure enough Aramis whimpers out, rolls his hips forward against the desk, trying to get some kind of aching purchase for his cock, hard and heavy between his legs. Porthos can’t help but laugh – feels as breathless as Aramis looks. He slides his hand further down, palms at his ass. Aramis whines out, moans out his name – a breathless, needy _Captain_ to follow—

“You want to be fucked like this?” Porthos asks, slides the barrel of the gun to press against the back of his ear, the way he knows Aramis likes. He tilts his head back, presses against the cool kiss of metal. 

Porthos steps back, removes his hand and the gun – and Aramis whines, turns his head, pupils blown wide as he stares at him, already a plea on the tip of his tongue, willing to beg—

Porthos turns his gun, palms at the pommel, the inlay of silver and metal along the polished wood, small and thin and flaring out to the rounded end. He runs his thumb along it, circles it, looks at Aramis in a way where the movement can’t be mistaken – and Aramis’ mouth falls open and he whispers his name, breathless. 

“Want to be fucked?” Porthos asks him again.

“Yes, Captain,” Aramis says. 

“With this?” Porthos asks, lifting his eyebrows, sliding his fingers along the gun’s pommel. Aramis whimpers. Porthos asks, “Or the usual way?” 

Aramis claws at the desk – doesn’t move his hands (he promised, he promised he wouldn’t—), but looks as if it takes all his restraint now to reach for Porthos, to grab at him and not let go. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

 

-

 

Porthos fucks into Aramis – goes harder than he might normally. He tries so often, tries so much to be gentle with Aramis – who deserves kindness, who deserves gentleness. But he angles his hips, thrusts into him – and Aramis throws his head back and gasps out, arches, moans out as he claws at the desk. Porthos thrusts hard into him, pins Aramis’ hands down to the table with his own and ruts into him. 

He bites at Aramis’ ear, whispers, “I’ll get something commissioned for you.”

Then it’ll be safer, then it won’t be an actual gun—

Aramis whines out, bucks back against him – throwing off the steady pace they’d set. 

Porthos pins him down to the desk, forearm against the back of his neck. Aramis chokes out a helpless, pleased moan, and rolls his hips back against him. Porthos pants in his ear, shudders out around his control – tries so hard to keep that control, to keep going, to make Aramis go boneless in his arms. 

 

-

 

He comes before Aramis. He groans out, spills inside of him – slumps against him, pants against his neck. Aramis whispers his name, preens beneath the attention, luxuriates and arches beneath him.

He spills over Porthos’ hand before Porthos can get a steady, pumping pace going – it takes two strokes before he feels him come against his fingertips. He moans out, loud and wavering – slumps beneath him and gasps out promises of devotion, of love, love—

Porthos kisses the shell of his ear. 

 

-

 

It’s like this: Aramis draping over Porthos once they collapse into his bed, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, his beard prickling in the best way, his lips soft to follow the burn. 

“Porthos,” he whispers now. Not captain. 

Porthos curls his arms around him, tilts his head down to kiss Aramis who is straining to meet him. 

“Thanks,” he whispers to him.

Aramis laughs. “Oh, it was my pleasure.” 

There is a tease to the words, but it overlays the truth of the matter – the softness with which he looks at him, the way he closes his eyes and tilts his head as Porthos pets through his hair. They’re naked and dirty, but they are together, collapsing into the bed as the candles flicker out and die down around them. 

Aramis breathes out. “Promise me you’ll survive this.”

“Only if you promise the same,” Porthos says, buries his nose into Aramis’ hair – beyond authority now, just firmly into sentimentality and not caring. It’s been too long since he last held Aramis. 

Aramis’ laugh turns watery, and he tilts his head up to kiss Porthos again rather than answer him. Porthos lets him. He could give him a direct order, but it is better like this – to trade it freely, if only in platitudes, a promise they can’t really give with true certainty. 

But Porthos will make sure. He’ll make sure, with his dying breath, that Aramis can make it back safe. He knows Aramis would only ever do the same for him, too.

It’s like this: he does not know if he can be captain, but he knows he can be a soldier, and he knows he would follow his brothers into hell and back again. He would tear down the walls of the Bastille himself. 

Aramis’ smile is a tentative thing against his mouth as they trade kisses. He presses his forehead to his once they part, just looking at Porthos for a moment. 

“You’ll be a great captain,” Aramis says. “I know it. Never doubt that.”

And it’s like this: Porthos believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), should you need me.


End file.
